The Witch Watch

by Shamus Young

  A black shape rushed in front of her and she cried out. It wheeled to face her. She had no time to draw a weapon, and so in a panic she simply held out her hand and unleashed fire. The abomination spun again, shielding itself from the flame with its cloak. Then it fled, still burning, towards the road.

  Her cry drew the attention of the others, and soon they were closing in around it, a specter of flame and smoke rushing through the night.

  The abomination threw itself down in the dust and beat out the flames. By the time it rose again, the horses had caught up with it. Alice watched as the captain tried to hew it with his sword, but their foe was unexpectedly crafty. It stayed in front of the captain, using the horse’s head as a shield. Turpin turned quickly and swung, but the abomination ducked the blow and slapped the horse’s hindquarters, sending it galloping forward. Turpin cursed as his mount carried him away from the battle.

  Jack rode forward and struck true. His sword landed between its shoulder blades, and the abomination fell on all fours.

  Alice threw up her arms in frustration. “The head! What are you doing? You ass! Take off the head!” She was shouting at Jack with the tone of a governess scolding foolish children.

  The abomination stood up, still with Jack’s sword driven into its back and protruding from its chest. It looked down at the blade curiously. The sword had been thrust in from above, so the hilt hovered over its head like a flagpole.

  “Extraordinary,” it said. “I’m still alive.” There was a pause while it tried to expel the blade by pushing on the tip. “Well, you know what I mean,” it added.

  Archer ran up beside Alice, panting and coughing. He bent forward with his hands on his knees, trying to ask what was going on between gasps.

  The Witch Watch looked on, dumbfounded, as the abomination lurched around, trying to pull the sword free. It reached up and gripped the hilt, awkwardly pushing and pulling, wiggling the blade back and forth. After much muttering and staggering about, it withdrew the blade.

  Turpin, having recovered control of his horse and dismounted, approached with his own sword in his hand.

  The abomination drew back its hood, revealing a grim, yet smiling skull. Only a few ragged strands of hair remained. It looked at Captain Turpin. “I see you mean to put me to the sword. Before you do, might I ask you what crime I’ve committed?”

  “You’re an abomination!” the captain spat.

  “Abomination is such a harsh term. I prefer to think of myself as an affront,” it replied.

  “Mock all you like, Your Lordship,” Captain Turpin said coldly, “We’ll soon have you back in your proper grave.”

  “Very good. I was in the wrong grave the last time I was dead. I’m not the Lord Mordaunt.”

  “You can claim to be whoever you like. You’re still going back to the grave.”

  The abomination then turned his sword around and offered it back to Jack. “Very well,” it said, “I surrender. But before you further dull your sword on my ribs, perhaps I can give you news that will be to your advantage.”

  This struck Alice as exceptionally strange. In all her years with the Witch Watch, there had never been an abomination that behaved this way. Some were murderous beasts. Some were mindless and wandering, and still others might be cunning but mad. But the idea that one would surrender to them was preposterous.

  “You’ll find your lies in small demand here, your Lordship. Or whoever you claim to be.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” said Alice. “At least, he’s not Lord Mordaunt.”

  “You saw the empty tomb yourself, Miss,” the captain reminded her.

  She approached their foe. In earlier days they would have forbidden her, or told her to shut up, or insisted that this was too dangerous. But they now trusted her to know her business. “I’ve heard that the Viscount was a short, bald man, thin and fragile. And yet this one is absurdly tall, broad even in death, and still has remnants of a young head of hair. And if that is not enough to persuade you, have any of you heard of an English Gentleman talking with such a coarse accent. I can’t place it. It almost sounds American.”

  “My mother is American,” the abomination offered helpfully.

  “No Mother, I can’t throw away this job and go to America with you,” Gilbert said. He smoothed out his uniform and regarded himself in the mirror one last time to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He didn’t want to make a bad first impression.

  They were in father’s old study. After his passing, this room became a place to keep all of his things, and a neutral ground for arguments. Morning light poured in through the windows.

  Mother was standing in the doorway wringing her hands. “All these years you’ve spent dithering, and suddenly you’ve found a job. I arranged so many opportunities for you and you never took any of them. Why start now?”

  “This is the sort of job I’ve been looking for since I left the military. I don’t want to spend the day sitting around.” Gilbert struggled to fasten the topmost button in his uniform. Tailors seemed unable to believe their own measurements of his neck, and too often tried to make his clothes in more conventional proportions.

  “Then why did you remain unemployed?” she said with exasperation.

  “You know what I mean. I don’t want to go around, poking my nose in where it doesn’t belong or putting ink to paper all day. I want a job that matters. I want a job keeping people safe. I never felt so happy as when I was guarding and protecting. Other men have such contempt for guard duty but I see it as a great honor. Perhaps even sacred. Boring, yes, usually. But I was satisfied knowing that if trouble came, I would be the first to act against it. The robber, the vandal, the assassin. When I stood guard, I was their chief fear. My watching made it so that others could sleep more easily.”

  His top button was now secure. Gilbert tugged on the collar in an attempt to gain some breathing room. Mother folded her arms and frowned at him without comment.

  “You always say I’m too big, and it’s true. But my size is a lot of use in that line of work.” Gilbert looked out the window in the direction of London, muttering, “I’d have worked at Scotland Yard, but they wouldn’t have me.”

  “If you liked guarding things all day, then why did you even leave the military in the first place?”

  “You know why, and you know I don’t like to discuss it,” he said bitterly.

  “I think you’ve been very silly. You’ve passed up many good jobs just because they weren’t enough like the job you gave up.”

  “Well I’ve finally found a job where I’ll be doing what I love,” he said with a satisfied nod. “The Viscount is apparently a man of great importance to need a personal guard. I’ll see to the protection of his family, or estate, or privacy, or whatever is in need of safekeeping.”

  “I’m sure there are things in America that need uniformed men with polished boots to stand around them. You’re being quite cruel by leaving me like this.”

  “You are the one who is leaving, not me,” he reminded her. “And besides, you make it sound like this horrible thing. You’re making a fuss over nothing,”

  “And how would you know?” she demanded. “You don’t have children. You don’t know what it’s like being forced to choose between your offspring.”

  “Forced? Now you’re being silly. Nobody is forcing you to choose anything,” he said with irritation.

  “Of course I am. Every day, since your sister moved away.”

  “Well the blame is on her then, not me.” Gilbert took Mother by the shoulders and gently steered her out of the way so that he could go downstairs. When he reached the front door he turned to find Mother was still at the top of the steps, looking down on him.

  “Oh Gilbert. I know I fuss at you but I’m so very fond of you both. I only wish to have all of my chicks under my wings.”

  “Grand-chicks, you mean.”

  “If you like. Maybe it’s too much to ask for, but I don’t think it’s too much to hope for. How far
away is this job?”

  “Not far. Closer than America, at any rate. It’s just on the other side of London. It’s a day’s journey at most. Probably half a day, if I was in the mood to hurry.”

  “And this Ravenstead fellow...”

  “Mordaunt,” Gilbert corrected her.

  “Well, whoever he is, I’ve never heard of him.”

  “He is a Viscount, Mother. And his representatives were very particular. Asked a great many questions about my career, such as it is, and about my lifestyle, and family.”

  “Sounds like a busybody.”

  “I admire his thoroughness. Very professional. It shows he isn’t content to hire any vagabond that claims he can hold a gun.”

  “And you’re sure you won’t reconsider? Don’t you want to meet your niece?”

  Gilbert sighed. “Or nephew. And yes, I would like to meet him. But I’ve only just now, finally, acquired a job. A job that promises a great deal of money I might add. I can’t bear the thought of walking away now.”

  It was high August, and even though it was only mid-morning Gilbert was already red-faced from the heat. He thought perhaps it might have been wise to trim back his muttonchops and let the skin breathe a bit more. Perhaps he would have it done when he reached London.

  “You wouldn’t have encountered so much trouble finding work in America. Our lack of connections here has held you back.” She said this almost as if it was an apology. “And is probably still hindering your hunt for a wife, although the chief blame for that should go to your lack of effort.”

  Gilbert picked up his bag.

  Mother came downstairs and fussed over his uniform. “You will come and visit me again before I leave?”

  “I’ll make every effort to do so, but I can’t make any promises.” This was actually very unlikely, and Gilbert knew that this would be the last time he saw Mother for quite some time. He had a sudden urge to abandon the job and sail off with her to America. Then he got hold of himself and put the idea out of his mind. He had found work, real work this time, for proper pay, and now he intended to pour himself into it.

  They embraced.

  “I love you Gilbert, do be careful,” she said quietly.

  “Not to worry.” He smiled. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I still say we should take care of him right now,” one of the men said.

  Gilbert lay dejectedly in the back of the cart. He had explained what he knew. He told them about Simon, Princess Sophie, and had related the strange events that had taken place in the tomb the night before. They asked him a great deal about the book Simon had used and about the sorcery he employed, and were very annoyed when Gilbert insisted that he knew nothing other than what he saw. They had then loaded him onto their cart and withdrew to discuss his fate among themselves. Two of the men had bound him with rope, just in case he changed his mind about surrendering.

  Gilbert found he didn’t mind the ropes. They were very tight, but they didn’t seem to hurt. Nothing did. Even the sword - which would have pierced the heart of a living man - had created little more than a fleeting sting, like the memory of an old injury. The only thing that bothered him was that they had hauled him into the cart face-down, leaving him to stare at the floor.

  “I don’t want to be rude, but are we going to sit here much longer? Or perhaps you could roll me over? I think I’ve witnessed everything these boards have to offer in the way of entertainment.”

  “Quiet you,” said one of the men guarding him. This was followed by a knock from the butt of the man’s rifle. “I don’t like hearing your voice. It’s unnatural. Goes right to my spine.”

  “Sorry,” Gilbert replied, which was answered with another knock.

  The Witch Watch was down to four. There was the captain, the woman, the rifleman, and the angry fellow who had been occasionally kicking him for the last half hour. He heard them mention that the other three were transporting the ‘other prisoners’, and feared that they had managed to capture Simon during the chase. But then he realized they were most likely talking about the Four Horsemen.

  The captain was like many captains Gilbert had known during his time in the service. He was a man of about forty, serious, determined, and not prone to showing emotion. He was regarded as more knowledgeable than brilliant. He had a weathered face with a handlebar mustache.

  The woman fascinated him most of all. She appeared to be in the midst of her twenties. Her face was beautiful in a way that reminded him painfully of his lost life, although she was much too thin for his tastes. She seemed to be an adviser of some sort. The captain ran the men, but he deferred to the lady on all subjects relating to magic.

  These two were at an impasse now because they had contradictory goals. They needed to destroy the ‘abomination’ as they called him, but now it seemed like destroying Gilbert could aid the cause of whoever revived him. He seemed to be very helpful and forthcoming, and they were reluctant to get rid of him while he might still possess useful information. In addition, the news of the princess was new to them, and they were undecided on whether they should believe him or what should be done about it.

  The cart jostled as it was boarded. A foot prodded him. “You. Corpse. We have more questions for you.” It was the captain’s voice.

  Gilbert sighed. He had hoped the discussion was over and that his captors had come to some conclusion regarding his fate. He was disappointed to find they had simply moved to another round of debate. “I have very little else to keep me occupied, so I shall be happy to answer them,” Gilbert said.

  “Regarding this associate of yours...” the captain began before trailing off again.

  “Yes?” Gilbert said patiently to the floorboards.

  “Here now, this won’t do. I can’t interrogate a sack at the bottom of a cart. Flip him over at least, Jack.”

  Many hands grabbed him and Gilbert was rolled over onto his back. He looked up to see a circle of faces examining him, shining brightly in the lantern light against the starry sky. “Thank you,” he said cheerfully, mostly because he sensed that his manners annoyed them.

  “You can keep your thanks. It wasn’t done for your benefit,” said the captain. “Now, this associate of yours. You said he ran off, but not where he was going.”

  “I don’t know where he was going. My concern was saving him from your noose. I felt pity for the boy. He apparently suffered much at the hands of the Viscount.”

  “So you said,” replied the captain doubtfully. “But all the same we’d like to interview him and see if he corroborates your story.”

  “Since the interview would likely end with his hanging, I am content to be called a liar if you won’t take me at my word.”

  “What preparations were done to your body before you died?” asked the woman.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember how I died. Or even where or when. My memories are taking shape, but slowly. The last memory I have is of riding a coach to Ravenstead to work for Lord Mordaunt. As a guard, mind you. I went into the job expecting no more or less than standing about and polishing boots. I certainly wasn’t expecting sorcery, or I wouldn’t have taken the position.”

  “And this business about the princess,” the captain said accusingly, “Do you have anything that might support your claim that there’s a member of the royal family being held hostage and being subjected to magic in Ravenstead?”

  “Nothing,” Gilbert said sadly, “And I‘m only going by what Simon told me. For my part, I believe him. But he may have misunderstood, or have been deceived. Even his account was based on hearsay; he never saw the princess and had no idea where she might have been hidden.”

  “Seems odd that a member of the royal family could go missing without us hearing about it,” the captain said accusingly.

  “Perhaps odd, but not impossible,” the woman replied. “And the book corroborates his story in a way.”

  “You have Simon’s book!” Gilbert said in surprise at seeing the evil thing in her hands
. Although, it looked much less menacing now. A number of bright hair ribbons hung from between its pages, waving slightly in the wind.

  “Werner Krauss was a strong believer in the power of royal blood. He was physician to... Ferdinand II, I think?” She seemed to be asking herself this question. “He did a great many experiments on royal blood and was convinced that it had unique magical properties. For my part, I don’t believe it. I don’t see why sitting on any throne, no matter how well adorned, should impart any special magics to the blood. If his studies were based in any way on observation, then he was probably simply seeing the effects of comfort, cleanliness, and having a good diet. I suspect that anything he wrote about royal blood could apply just as well to anyone well-fed and well-rested.”

  “Would you mind not teaching sorcery to the abomination?” the captain snapped.

  “The abomination has a name,” Gilbert offered. “My surname is Hiltman.”

  “So you said,” muttered the captain.

  “You can also call me Gilbert, if we’re going to be friends,” he added. Gilbert could no longer smile, so he did his best to convey one with his tone as he said this. It earned him another kick from one of the men. It reminded him of being in a fight while drunk; he could feel the blows, but the pain was subdued and distant.

  “Please stop that, Jack,” the woman said, slightly irritated. “Call him whatever you like, but there’s no sense in beating on him. It’s obvious he doesn’t care or he would have stopped antagonizing you several blows ago.” She turned to the captain and held up the book, “At any rate, I wasn’t teaching him sorcery, but history, which is harmless enough. The point is that Krauss would have called for royal blood in a revivification like this. Since this cult was working from this book, it stands to reason that they would follow his methods.”